Free Makeda by Randall Robinson Page A

the dream about her life as an Akân girl living in the seventeenth century, I accompanied her on a Saturday morning to the 6th Street market to buy vegetables. The market counted seventy or more refrigerated meat display cases and produce stalls that filled the cavernous main floor of the redbrick building that had originally served as an armory.
    I remember what happened that morning as if it were yesterday. Grandma wore one of her bright African gowns and carried a carved ebony-wood walking stick. She was well known at the market, and many of the stall operators called out greetings to her. During our tour of the stalls, an elderly black man in a dashiki, speaking elegantly accented English, greeted her from behind a small table. His syntax was formal and out of place in the bustling, working-class crowd of shoppers and vendors. On his table were not vegetables, but bolts of exotically printed fabrics, a set of hand-carved reliquaries, and four or five softcover books.
    “Madame,” the man said softly.
    Grandma turned in the direction of the man’s voice, as if she had been listening for it.
    Without preamble, the man asked, “Are you Akân, madame?”
    Grandma did not give the answer that I expected her to give to the strange question. “I don’t know, sir,” she said as she stopped and turned to him.
    “I believe that you are Akân, madame.”
    The man did not give his name and did not inquire after hers.
    “How can you know that, sir?”
    “Do you know of the Akân people, madame?”
    My grandmother hesitated and for moments remained silent.
    The cultured old gentleman then smiled, but only with his eyes. It was as if he had come to the market expecting to see my grandmother. “I have some things for you that you may find helpful.”
    He presented her with the reliquary objects and explained their significance. My grandmother slowly rolled them about her fingers, feeling every bend and curve, appreciating the textures and liking the way they felt in her hands.
    “These are from the Kota people of Gabon. They are guardian figures to be placed near the remains of ancestors to protect them from evil forces. They also bring to their living families health and prosperity.”
    The reliquary guardian figures were small, very old sculptures of human forms that had been fashioned from copper, brass, and wood.
    The old man then handed her the rolled wall hanging with the large symbol on it. “This is from the Akân. The Akân are my people and your people.” He picked up a book of yellowed dog-eared pages and handed it to me. “You will read from this to your grandmother.” He patted my shoulder to soften the words that he had spoken as a command.
    Without saying another word, the man turned, left the table, and quickly lost himself in the eddy of shoppers.
    In the years that ensued before I left Richmond for Morgan State College in Baltimore, Maryland, I read passages to my grandmother from the little book given to her by the mysterious Akân man at the market.
    The title of the book was West African Traditional Religion. The author’s name was Kofi Asare Opoku, a professor at the University of Ghana in Legon.
    One passage in the scholarly book that my grandmother asked me to read to her over and again was this:
    It is also believed that the ancestors enter a spiritual state of existence after death. They have their feet planted in both the world of the living and the world of spirits. Therefore they know more than the living and are consequently accorded great respect.
    The day of my last visit before leaving for college was gone and Grandma had grown tired. She heard me rise from my chair and her voice mixed regret with affection.
    “Tomorrow, son, you begin your great adventure. I can’t tell you how proud I am of the man you have already become.”
    “I will miss you, Grandma.”
    We embraced for a long time. Then she said, patting my back, “Okay, son, okay.”
    “Grandma, I don’t have a picture of